Pygmalion and Galatea
by zanydrii
Summary: He began as disdain, a block of marble and a cold heart, a lantern held in the face of the world's dishonest men, guiding, yet blinding.   An Enjolras/Grantaire relationship study.  Really more of a Grantaire study, but whatever.


**A/N: So here's another Enjolras/Grantaire fic for all of you (because I can't seem to write anything else of late). I hope you enjoy it! If you haven't read Pygmalion and Galatea, I suggest you look it up before you start. It's just a quick Greek myth, so it won't take very long, I promise.**

**Happy Holidays!**

He began as disdain, a block of marble and a cold heart, a lantern held in the face of the world's dishonest men, guiding, yet blinding. He began as a test, a bet, a wager. He was a parody, a comedy worthy of Aristophanes. But you, in your arrogance, turned him into something else. You turned him into your Galatea, leaving yourself to play the poor Pygmalion, lost forever to a thing of his own creation, to the folly of his own mind.

When you think of Enjolras, there is nothing specific that comes to your mind. You couldn't tell the color of his eyes if asked, nor could you recall whatever dry comment or commanding speech he made last. You don't know a thing about his family or his life, and you don't really want to ask. Why spoil the ideal with realism? You've enough of that every day. No, better to let the lantern shine in your eyes and hide the rest. Better to let the heart overcome the vision, and the body to overcome the heart. The real world is tiring, even for a cynic, perhaps especially for a cynic, and he lets you relax for a while.

The only thing that really occurs to you when you hear his name is a bright, searing light, the sun and the stars, a blistering flame, a scorching fire. You feel the heat of his gaze, the passion of his words, and the cry of "_Apollo!" _forces its way between your lips. You know, though, what you would find were that light to disappear. You would find those pieces of his statue that you willfully chipped away, the wrinkles and pains you ironed out and starched flat.

He was defiant.

He was naive.

He was foolish.

He was afraid.

Most of all, though, he was beautiful. He was intelligent and passionate, he was clever and eloquent, he was liberty, equality, and fraternity put together in one nicely wrapped, tri-colored package. He was your Galatea, and he could do no wrong.

It occurs to you that you're probably not a very good cynic. You care too much and you think too little, you laugh too hard and you feel too strongly. You have a constant mistress in your green faerie, but you refuse to call her a lover, bestowing kisses, but never words, silently explaining what was never meant to be. Selfish though it may be, you keep your voice to yourself, saving it for those few times you may need to use it. You save your lantern oil, too, deciding to see only when it suits you best. Seeing is for those who don't know the truth. You know the truth very well, though, and that only makes you want to hide, concealed in the darkness of your dilapidated, musty corner, forever safe in the ignorance of the night. You don't seek the honest men out. They come find you, and much to your detriment, really.

The creaking of a door hinge and the squeaking of freshly shined shoes on a polished wood floor draw you out of your reverie, the soft glow of a candle gently illuminating a perfectly carved face and stony eyes. His eyes are blue, you remember that now, and his lips the perfect shade of rosy pink.

"What are you doing here, Grantaire?"

"I could ask you the same question, I suppose, though I don't think I will. It's much too troublesome getting an answer out of you." You're grinning cheekily, but your heart is pounding wildly, the same way it always does. Your Galatea is speaking and walking before your very eyes, breathing and frowning, come to life.

_Oh, but please do not let him frown,_ you think. _Such creatures as the gods were not meant for unhappiness._

But they were, and you know it, and knowing makes your pounding heart tremble in fear.

"You're one to talk," he snaps, impatient. "I'm here to pick up the papers I left behind. Now are you going to explain to me why you're here, or not?"

You grin again, but it's much less jovial this time. This time, it's laced with sadness, laced with the melancholy and desire that transform your smile into a grimace. "I'm here, Apollo, because I don't want to leave. Where else is there for me?"

"Home. Not here."

Your only response is a dry laugh, humorless and bitter. Silence follows, and Enjolras carefully gathers his papers, stacking them neatly and deliberately, each gentle rustle a crack of thunder in the resounding quiet.

There is so much you want to say in that quiet, so much you want to tell him, from the thoughts swirling around in your head to the trivial little things that happened to you this morning. You want to have a conversation, to show him you're not a waste of space, a failure, a winecask. You want to compliment him and hold him and love him. You want to tell him about those birds you saw outside the window, about the weather, about the stars in the sky and everything underneath them.

You don't, though, and he leaves without another word.

Even after he's gone, you catch yourself with that dreadful grin still pasted haphazardly onto your face, and you wonder which of you is really the statue.


End file.
